Humanisms
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: A series of ficlets, wherein Kirk and McCoy struggle to teach our favorite Vulcan about everything from bus fare to marshmellons. K plus for a play margin. Non-slash.
1. Illogically delicious!

**This one...I can't remember how it started. But as usual you can blame KCS. I believe she once wrote a fanfiction wherein Holmes encounters cornflakes. **

**Please enjoy my first official sojourn into the trek fandom. **

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You see a lot of strange things on a starship, not just on the planets you explore, but often on the ship itself. Four hundred odd individuals, stuck on the same tin wagon hurtling through empty space are bound to get a little cabin fever now and again. Often the only way to relieve it is through unusual and random acts.

But this had to be the weirdest thing Jim had seen so far.

He'd been traversing the corridors, headed for the gym, and he'd passed the cafeteria just as another crew member was exiting. Through the open door he spotted two familiar figures

It wasn't odd to want to stop and say hello to his closest friends. And it was unusual enough to see them voluntarily together and quiet that he was intrigued. He altered his course accordingly.

Neither of them looked up at his entrance, and the closer he got the clearer it was that they were so absorbed that they weren't going to notice him at all.

In this way he was able to sneak up close enough to understand their whispers.

"But I do not understand the function, Doctor."

"It's not a function, Spock! It's enjoyment. Now which flavor would you like?"

"I have never tasted any of them. I have no experience upon which to base my preference."

"You don't have to have experience, you just choose one. See, look at the boxes…"

"To base my choice upon the container is hardly logical, as it is fashioned to appeal aesthetically, and has no actual bearing upon the contents."

"Mother of mercy. Look, this one has a bear. You like bears don't you Spock?"

"Doctor, I begin to wish (his tone of voice conveyed his disgust of the word quite clearly) that you had never met my parents."

"Well what about this one? The grains make a popping sound."

"They do not seem to be making any at the moment."

"Don't go pressing your pointy green ear against the box! They don't make noiseuntil you pour the milk over it."

"That is also illogical. Aside from the noise, and I cannot fathom how that particular sensation would bring pleasure, why must they be immersed in milk? It renders most of the contents soggy before they can be consumed, and from what I understand part of the value is found in the level of crunchiness."

"Look! Just choose a box! It doesn't' matter which. Here, try this one, green with elves on it. Perfect for you."

Bones seized one of the many colored boxes on the table and upended it. There was a great hollow clatter as the brightly colored food bits rushed out to cover the bowl, Spock, and most of the table.

McCoy took no notice of the mess and determinedly poured a measure of milk in with the cereal

"I believe it is a leprechaun, not an elf. And it does not appear to have pointed ears."

"Eat before it goes soggy."

Kirk, who was quivering like a tower of jelly with suppressed amusement put his hand on McCoy's shoulder.

"What's going on here, Bones?" he said in a strained voice.

The Doctor whirled, and Spock turned more slowly, a spoon in his mouth and a slight dribble of milk on his chin.

"Oh, Jim. Tryin' ta give me a heart attack boy? Just um…helping Spock to learn more about earth cultures."

Spock took another bite and crunched loudly.

The crew did not mind seeing their captain on the floor, holding his guts like they might burst out as he howled with laughter.

_That sight_ was not so unusual.

* * *

**The point is, there's nothing more human than chomping down on a big bowl of sugary, colorful, and ridiculously priced breakfast cereal.**

**Even better if _don't _eat it at breakfast, but at 3:00 am.**


	2. BuddyHeat

**Written for KCS, because her muse decided to take a holiday. (if you see it please call). Spock's discomfiture made its self known halfway through, and I decided it fit here. **

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It was a rare thing that Mr. Spock did not know what to do. But he was no good underwater, really, no matter how big his brain was.

"Jim!"

In his half-water logged state he could barely orient himself enough to hang onto Dr. McCoy, who was struggling his damndest to get back into the pool.

"Let go of me you ice-blooded devil! He'll drown!"

He was too cold to respond. Otherwise he would have told the Doctor that a human body would rapidly freeze in such temperatures, and that Jim's chances of survival were already negative, and it was illogical to kill himself as well.

"Jim!"

Blue eyes tried to pierce the murky grey that still sloshed against they're legs, still rebounding from the motion of the crash.

There was no reassuring flash of gold, no quick grin, no signal that they're captain was anywhere but at the bottom of that endless pool.

Eventually, McCoy stopped struggling, and let himself sink against the bony chest behind him.

Spock didn't ease his hold an inch.

"You can let go of me. I'm not going to dive in after him."

The commander hesitated, long enough to mean he doubted the Doctor's sanity, then he let his arms fall to his sides.

Bones would have scrambled away, but the pointy-eared nuisance was rigid from the cold, and too stubborn to shiver. Contact would have to be maintained for any chance of survival.

Fire. Fire would be good, if he could get Spock to stand up and help him mutilate some of these scraggly bushes. And concentrating on something, anything, would keep him from plowing back in after Jim.

"Come on, you." McCoy stood, let his hand hover over the Vulcan's shoulder and stood waiting until the head tilted and brown eyes finally peered up at him, foggy from the cold.

"We've gotta find a way to keep warm," the human insisted already his hair had begun to freeze into icicles. And Spock's looked unusually shiny with its coating of ice.

At last the Vulcan responded. Rocking back on his heels and crouching awkwardly to stretch his legs out and get his feet under him. White hands stretched against the black mud like obscene spiders as he pushed himself upwards.

He towered over Bones as usual, but somehow seemed meeker next to the human's gruffness.

"Good night! That water really does take it out of you doesn't it?"

Spock blinked. "What means of survival did you have in mind, Doctor?"

McCoy shrugged, a little uncomfortable with the position of command. "We've got plenty of stuff for a fire to start out with. Once you're dry I suspect you'll be a lot more use, and I'm so cold my nose is gonna fall off…not to mention your pointy hobgoblin ears."

Spock nodded his dark head, knocking some sleet loose, "Very well," and snapped a branch as thick as Bones' neck off a tree.

He may have been moving on automatic, but the Vulcan was still twice as efficient as anyone else. And pretty soon they had a mound of muddy sticks that smouldered and stank, but burned steadily enough.

Bones went into a limp heap beside it, shivering his guts out, and Spock sat upright, basking like a primitive idol in the flames.

This was why neither of them noticed the creature crawling towards them until its muck-covered hand clutched at Spock's foot.

"Holy—!" Bones cursed as the Vulcan jumped, and both of them pulled away from the black mound that had separated itself from the growing darkness.

McCoy's blue eyes widened like a Georgian sky when Spock suddenly rushed back to it.

"What're you doing?"

No response, the commander's energies were focused on the hand. He watched squeamishly as green-tinged fingers brushed through the muck over curled muddy claws to the foreleg—no…not a leg.

A wrist.

His medical instincts clearly informed him that Spock was searching for the creature's pulse, though he had no idea why.

He sat stupidly for a whole minute before the thing raised its head, peered longingly at the fire, and the flames reflected in its glassy, hazel eyes.

"Son of a gun!"

He shuffled forward before Jim's head fell back into the muck and carefully cupped his patient's chin, noting how quickly Jim's fair hair had turned dark with the dank water.

"His heartbeat is slow and irregular," Spock reported, sounding more like his old self. "I suggest we transport him closer to the fire so that…"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, Dr. Spock. You take his legs, I've got his shoulders. Don't rattle him, he's hypothermic."

He got a _Do-you-think-so?-silly-little-monkey-_look for that, but it didn't matter with the chilled, goose-pimple skin of his captain under his frozen fingers.

"Good gosh, Jim!" he gasped, seeing that his eyes were still open. "What happened!"

"I would have thought that was apparent, Doctor," Spock laid his half gently beside the flames, and set about tackling the laces of Kirk's boots. Frostbite was more than a possibility and he understood the fragility of human toes.

"H-hit my h-hed," was the slurred response, and a dribble of red among the blackened hair testified of its truthfulness. Jim let out a long, full-body shiver as the warmth washed over him and Bones carefully knelt to make a pillow of his knees.

"Geesh! We could truss you up, throw you in a trunk and you'd still make it out of that lake wouldn't you?"

Jim grinned.

Spock sent him a withering _Don't-give-the-illogical-human-even-more-illogical-ideas-_glare, and pulled the sodden boots off Kirk's white feet, placing them near the fire to dry.

"Y-you try it first."

"And come out needing a shower bad as you, boy? I don't think so."

Jim wrinkled his nose…at least that's what it looked like he did. it was hard to tell beneath the layer of mud. "You already do."

McCoy ignored the jibe and considered his options. There was little enough he could do in this swamp other than keep Jim warm and wait for daylight to look for their locators. Hopefully the ship was already scanning for their downed exploration pod.

"Alright then, since we all smell the same we can't really complain about being bedmates."

He lowered Jim's head to a soft patch of mud, stretched out beside him and seized the violently shivering young man in a bear-hug.

Spock sat, unusually stiff (which was saying something), and stared at them like they were the most barbaric thing he's seen since the head-shrinkers on Freidish IV.

"Come on, Spock," Bones growled. "You've got the other side."

A mud-encrusted eyebrow rose and almost disappeared in the fringe of dark hair.

"What?"

"It's not hard, you hobgoblin! You don't have to spoon him. Just lie down and keep the wind from getting to him."

The Vulcan blinked, then, reluctantly, slid down and lay on Jim's other side, looking even stiffer than he had sitting up.

Jim snickered.

"Shut up, you. You're delirious."

"Yes'sir.

* * *

When the ship found them in the morning, Bones had managed to roll till his head was on Jim's legs (a position that gave him a neck cramp for a week after).

Spock was stretched comfortably beside the ashes of the fire, and the Captain's head was carefully pillowed on his arm.


	3. Bedside Manner

It's a well known fact that Doctors, of any day and age become used to their schedules being interrupted. McCoy expected it or he never would have gone to medical school. Mind you, when he joined Starfleet that happened less and less, even as chief medical officer, he had a team of well trained physician's under him, and unless it was a crisis he was perfectly willing to let them take their turn, he was no good to anyone worn to a frazzle.

He hadn't been woken up in the middle of the night by a tentative hand on his shoulder since he'd left his little girl back in the states.

"Doctor."

He tried to bury his face deeper into the pillow, stubble scratching on the cool sheets. But the hand was just as persistent as any six year olds, tapping gently on his shoulder. As the soft rumbling voice, deeper from sleep, interrupted him.

"Dr. McCoy, it is most urgent that you awaken and come with me at once."

He groaned so that his own morning breath swept in warm clouds over his face.

"Leave me alone."

"I cannot, Doctor. You must come with me _now_. "

There was a definite steel tone to that voice, but he was too grumpy and sleepy to think of anything but the few precious hours of peaceful darkness he would never get.

"Go _away_, Spock. There is this little thing called sleep that we humans like to do sometimes. It keeps us from acting like bears in the morning."

"In your case I don't note much difference," came the familiar insult, but the Vulcan cut it short. "It is _most urgent_ that you get up_ now."_

McCoy sat straight up, propping himself up with his arms and glaring blearily at the first officer. Spock _never _used that voice, it was on the edge of emotion, quivering on the very border between Humanity, and Vulcan discipline.

"What's wrong?" he demanded from the pale face, hovering before him under its dark cap of hair, eyes and other features hidden in shadows.

Spock's answer was oddly short and simple, almost childlike, and urgent with concern.

"Jim is sick."

The Jim boy _was _sick. In fact their captain was leaning over the primitive toilet, doing his best to make his insides his outsides. His officers stood forlornly in the hallway, watching the spectacle before McCoy remembered that he was a Doctor, and knelt beside the suffering man.

"Aw Jim…it's alright boy, let it all out."

Jim didn't need any encouragement, but he moaned helpfully to let Bones know of his condition.

He put his arm around the heaving shoulders and turned back to Spock, who stood awkwardly in the hall, hands locked behind him. "How long has he been like this, Spock?"

"I do not know," said the Vulcan, sadly. "But judging from the accumulation of debris and gastric—"

Jim retched and McCoy glared at the unhelpful science officer. "Thanks for that Spock…heaven only knows why they used to make these toilets out of _white porcelain…" _ and as Jim whimpered, "It's gonna be alright Jim. Don't just stand there like a Vulcan lump, Spock. Make yourself useful." Worry made the medic gruff.

"I admit that I am unfamiliar with this type of illness, Dr. McCoy…"

"Just get me a wet cloth!"

Spock turned on his heel into the darkened apartment, heading for the kitchen.

McCoy turned back to his patient, patting the sweat-soaked back of the tunic. Jim's stomach was giving him a brief respite and he sat slumped against the toilet, gasping for breath and gagging at the foul taste in his mouth. It was a shame they were not on the enterprise, the advanced medical equipment would have made this whole messy process totally unnecessary, and no doubt Jim was unused to it.

"I know it looks bad, but it's gonna be okay."

"Bones…please stop…I'm gonna—" whatever Kirk meant was lost in another unpleasant reflex, and after it was done Bones flushed the toilet, wrinkling his nose. Jim sure could pack away a lot of food in that dense frame of his.

The Captain leaned exhaustedly, pressing his head against the cool porcelain. Spock returned at that same moment, brandishing a damp cloth. To his everlasting credit in McCoy's eyes, he made no sign of smelling anything at all.

"Thanks," McCoy took the cloth and used it to wipe Jim's running, clammy face. He looked like a bit of unbaked dough that 'd been left out too long and was starting to turn grey. He groaned eloquently.

"Bones…wha's wrong with me?"

"Looks like stomach flu to me, Jim."

"No doubt a primitive viral strain, Captain. One that would have been extinct on earth by now."

"Wonderful," moaned the Captian, voice echoing in the now empty bowl.

"Do you think you're going to let up any more?" McCoy asked gently. He wanted to move Jim as soon as possible, the tiled floor was cold, and would do nothing for a shivering, sweating patient.

"I don't want to move," choked out Kirk, curling up to illustrate the point. Bones noticed one arm was completely wrapped around the taught stomach.

"Does it ache down here?" McCoy asked, gently probing, more than muscle strain?"

Jim nodded tightly.

"Yeah its some sort of stomach virus. We need to get you laid out, Jim, and relaxed. You'll feel much better…"

Kirk let out a muffled noise at the prospect but didn't object as the Doctor took hold of his arm.

"Spock…"

The Vulcan jerked his head, slightly surprised. His eyes had been fixed on Jim, and his brows were drawn in a dark, narrow line.

McCoy blinked but said nothing about it. "Help me get him to his feet."

Spock moved readily to the Captain's other side, prised his hand off the toilet seat and lifted.

The moment Kirk began to uncurl he let out a heartfelt whimper and collapsed, trying to pull his legs up into his stomach. Spock froze instantly, he raised cautionary eyes to the Doctor.

"I do not think this action is advisable, McCoy."

"He can't stay here on the floor. He needs to lie down, or his body will just get more stressed," snapped Bones, who looked just as reluctant and nearly as pained as Jim himself.

"Affirmative. But if you will permit me, I have a more plausible solution to the dilemma."

And without waiting for approval, Spock released Jim's arm, weaved his own beneath the Captain's shoulders, and hooked the other beneath the buckled legs.

"Spock," murmured Bones, half in surprise, half in caution, but made no move to interrupt.

The Vulcan lifted the human easily, and slowly, so as not to upset his stomach further. Kirk settled awkwardly, but gently into his arms, holding his stomach and moaning again.

McCoy hurried ahead to ready Jim's bed as Spock followed behind, they moved like this sometimes, in unison without discussion, especially in times of JimCrisis.

The room was primitive, like everything else on this gangster-run planet. But it was regularly cleaned and comfortably furnished. There was even a dresser with a bowl, a pitcher, and a mirror on one side. It was in this that McCoy found a too-large set of old fashioned flannel pajamas. He pulled them out as Spock set the Captain on the bed.

"Lets get these on him, Spock. He's soaked."

The Vulcan examined the clothing with a dubious eyebrow, but silently obeyed, helping to relieve the captain of his command tunic, shirt and trousers before redressing him.

Kirk moaned through much of this operation, and in fact it seemed to agitate him more than the move from the bathroom had done. He was curled into a ball now, and holding his stomach tightly.

McCoy sat on the bed and took out the med-scanner to examine him. Jim even groaned at the dip in the mattress.

"I feel horrible."

"I know, Jim."

"What kind of…universe is this…there's no reason for it." this too trailed off into a moan. It was not one of kirk's more inspiring speeches.

"Nature's way I suppose. Just try to relax."

Jim let out a whimpering laugh at what he obviously considered a very ironic statement and tried to curl up tighter around the agonizingly cramped stomach muscles, to smother them out.

McCoy scanned him, familiar whirring (which was not of much comfort at this point) filled the air, and the Doctor turned grimly to his medical kit.

"I can treat it, Jim. Keep it from getting worse. But I don't actually have anything to get rid of it. You're body will have to do that itself." He took out a hypospray, pressed it into the slick neck…and that was it. No change, no relief accompanied the injection. Kirk muffled another drawn-out noise of pain as the deep ache continued to tear apart his stomach and everything else just below his ribcage. He was still nauseous, as though he could be sick again any moment, but he dreaded the release of such an action for the pain it would bring to his stomach. His skin was slick and cold and disgusting. He felt rotten from the inside out, and tucked his face into the pillow, wishing for death if it only meant an end to this horrible, primitive experience.

Spock, who had been hovering beside the bed, now seated himself on the side opposite McCoy. He put a hand on the Captain's shoulder…and Jim could have cried from the warmth and firmness that touch brought, even more than McCoy's steady pats on his back. His first officer was a rock, a wonderful sun-warmed rock in a sea of nauseating waves, and he clung to the sensation gratefully.


	4. Bad Days

"Jim boy? You okay?"

Kirk looked up to see the familiar weather beaten face, and blue eyes, warm as July. The skin around them was dark, and tired.

And there was good reason for it. They were all exhausted from the day's efforts. This had not been a usual mission, with a usual purpose.

Not that it was _technically_ a mission. Starfleet had not given Jim orders to interfere. The crew regarded Kirk as a law unto himself, they weren't inclined to question when he gave orders to break the boundaries of an "abandoned" space station.

Not when that space station was the center of an illegal slave ring.

Either way, they were all exhausted. And if Bones' face looked a little more hound-dogish than usual…at least he wasn't crying about it.

_Blazes_…he had to stop listening to those old earth recordings.

"Yes, I'm alright, Bones," He smiled as McCoy sat down beside him and folded the old, careworn hands in his lap. He rather hoped this was going to be a moment of companionable silence.

"Coz you don't look it."

_Dang_.

"No?"

"Nope," Bones shook his head like an emphatic six year old (an age he aspired too way too often). "You look like a man whose just spent 26 hours breaking up an illegal trade ring and then decided it was a good idea to kip out on the cold hard platform of his starship bridge."

"Well it _is_ my starship."

"Yeah."

"And we're not in motion."

"Mhmm."

"And no one's gonna come up here and trip over me."

"That's sorta the problem, Jim."

Kirk sighed and curled a little further in, setting his elbows on his knees so he could rest his chin. McCoy could not help noticing that he had shot out the viewscreen beyond their parameters to view some sort of supernova—or whatever that was; all greens, blues and soft pinks.

"Do you really expect me to sleep after all that, Bones?"

"it's _because_ of that I expect you to sleep," McCoy insisted gently. "Doesn't matter how much your head is reeling, Jim. You've gotta let it rest or it will just make things worse. Make your body well first and the mind will follow."

Kirk shrugged, looking out at the space beyond the nova…people always thought of it as just black. They never saw the dark jets of purple and blue, the soft wash of greys that were the neighboring galaxies…

"Do you think that will work for the people we rescued today?"

It was a sharp statement, and he regretted it as soon as Bones dropped his warm eyes. McCoy wasn't responsible for the universes' hard answers—but he just couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"I don't know…some of them."

"And the kids?"

McCoy froze, it was rare he heard that tone in Kirk's voice…especially in quiet moments.

Jim's eyes were still focused on the view screen, hard and blazing…cold as the space outside.

"Children…Bones. Little kids."

Bones nodded.

"Cages and cages of them…like frightened animals, Bones. Like Goddamn animals!"

"It's' over Jim. We stopped them."

Kirk sighed and hid his face for a moment, shuddering all over so that Bones put a heavy hand on the bowed, golden shoulders.

"We stopped them now…but they've been doing this for years. How many came before this?"

Bones shook his head. He didn't have any answers. He'd come as close to life and death as anyone, being the doctor of a starship wasn't easy…but damn it to hell. He didn't have any answers for this boy.

When Kirk looked up again, his eyes were soft, reflecting the delicate hues of the nova, as though seeking comfort from its silence, the inevitable cosmic dance of the dust of the universe.

"How many of them, Bones? Little frightened kids…"

McCoy put his arm entirely around his Captain, let the other man droop slowly into his embrace.

"No one should be able to hurt a little kid like that. "

But they did.

And that made men like James Tiberius Kirk weep on powerful starship bridges.

Provided they were empty.

Empty but for the good friend at his side, and the dark eyes that watched from an unnoticed seat in the corner.

Spock had not interrupted when the Captain trailed in, sensing that the man looked for refuge.

He did not interrupt now. But watched…


End file.
